The Left Behind Collection: All 12 Books

by Tim LaHaye

  And Rayford cried himself to sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  Buck Williams ducked into a stall in the Pan-Con Club men’s room to double-check his inventory. Tucked in a special pouch inside his jeans, he carried thousands of dollars’ worth of traveler’s checks, redeemable in dollars, Euros, or yen. His one leather bag contained two changes of clothes, his laptop, cell phone, digital recorder, accessories, toiletries, and some serious, insulated winter gear.

  He had packed for a ten-day trip to Britain when he left New York three days before the apocalyptic disappearances. His practice overseas was to do his own laundry in the sink and let it dry a whole day while wearing one outfit and having one more in reserve. That way he was never burdened with lots of luggage.

  Buck had gone out of his way to stop in Chicago first to mend fences with the Global Weekly’s bureau chief there, a fiftyish black woman named Lucinda Washington. He had gotten crossways with her—what else was new?—when he scooped her staff on, of all things, a sports story that was right under their noses. An aging Bears legend had finally found enough partners to help him buy a professional football team, and Buck had somehow sniffed it out, tracked him down, gotten the story, and run with it.

  “I admire you, Cameron,” Lucinda Washington had said, characteristically refusing to use his nickname. “I always have, as irritating as you can be. But the very least you should have done was let me know.”

  “And let you assign somebody who should have been on top of this anyway?”

  “Sports isn’t even your gig, Cameron. After doing the Newsmaker of the Year and covering the defeat of Russia by Israel, or I should say by God himself, how can you even get interested in penny-ante stuff like this? You Ivy League types aren’t supposed to like anything but lacrosse and rugby, are you?”

  “This was bigger than a sports story, Lucy, and—”

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry, Lucinda. And wasn’t that just a bit of stereotyping? Lacrosse and rugby?”

  They had shared a laugh.

  “I’m not even saying you should have told me you were in town,” she had said. “All I’m saying is, at least let me know before the piece runs in the Weekly. My people and I were embarrassed enough to get beat like that, especially by the legendary Cameron Williams, but for it to be a, well—”

  “That’s why you squealed on me?”

  Lucinda had laughed again. “That’s why I told Plank it would take a face-to-face to get you back in my good graces.”

  “And what made you think I’d care about that?”

  “Because you love me,” she had said. “You can’t help yourself.” Buck had smiled. “But, Cameron, if I catch you in my town again, on my beat without my knowledge, I’m gonna whip your tail.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Lucinda. Let me give you a lead I don’t have time to follow up on. I happen to know the NFL franchise purchase is not going to go through after all. The money was shaky and the league’s gonna reject the offer. Your local legend is going to be embarrassed.”

  Lucinda had begun scribbling furiously. “You’re not serious,” she had said, reaching for her phone.

  “No, I’m not, but it was sure fun to see you swing into action.”

  “You creep,” she had said. “Anybody else I’d be throwing out of here on his can.”

  “But you love me. You can’t help yourself.”

  “That wasn’t even Christian,” she had said.

  “Don’t start with that again.”

  “Come on, Cameron. You know you got your mind right when you saw what God did for Israel.”

  “Granted, but don’t start calling me a Christian. Deist is as much as I’ll cop to.”

  “Stay in town long enough to come to my church, and God’ll getcha.”

  “He’s already got me, Lucinda. But Jesus is another thing. The Israelis hate Jesus, but look what God did for them.”

  “The Lord works in—”

  “Mysterious ways, yeah, I know. Anyway, I’m going to London Monday. Working on a hot tip from a friend there.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “Not on your life. We don’t know each other that well yet.”

  She had laughed, and they had parted with a friendly embrace. That had been three days ago.

  Buck had boarded the ill-fated flight to London prepared for anything. He was following a tip from a former Princeton classmate, a Welshman who had been working in the London financial district since graduate school. Dirk Burton had been a reliable source in the past, tipping off Buck about secret high-level meetings among international financiers. For years Buck had been slightly amused at Dirk’s tendency to buy into conspiracy theories. “Let me get this straight,” Buck had asked him once, “you think these guys are the real world leaders, right?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Cam,” Dirk had said. “All I know is, they’re big, they’re private, and after they meet, major things happen.”

  “So you think they get world leaders elected, handpick dictators, that kind of a thing?”

  “I don’t belong to the conspiracy book club, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Then where do you get this stuff, Dirk? Come on, you’re a relatively sophisticated guy. Power brokers behind the scenes? Movers and shakers who control the money?”

  “All I know is, the London exchange, the Tokyo exchange, the New York exchange—we all basically drift until these guys meet. Then things happen.”

  “You mean like when the New York Stock Exchange has a blip because of some presidential decision or some vote of Congress, it’s really because of your secret group?”

  “No, but that’s a perfect example. If there’s a blip in your market because of your president’s health, imagine what it does to world markets when the real money people get together.”

  “But how does the market know they’re meeting? I thought you were the only one who knew.”

  “Cam, be serious. OK, not a lot of people agree with me, but then I don’t say this to just anyone. One of our muckety-mucks is part of this group. When they have a meeting, no, nothing happens right away. But a few days later, a week, changes occur.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’re going to call me crazy, but a friend of mine is related to a girl who works for the secretary of our guy in this group, and—”

  “Whoa! Hold it! What’s the trail here?”

  “OK, maybe the connection is a little remote, but you know the old guy’s secretary is not going to say anything. Anyway, the scuttlebutt is that this guy is real hot on getting the whole world onto one currency. You know half our time is spent on exchange rates and all that. Takes computers forever to constantly readjust every day, based on the whims of the markets.”

  Buck was not convinced. “One global currency? Never happen,” he had said.

  “How can you flatly say that?”

  “Too bizarre. Too impractical. Look what happened in the States when they tried to bring in the metric system.”

  “Should have happened. You Yanks are such rubes.”

  “Metrics were only necessary for international trade. Not for how far it is to the outfield wall at Yankee Stadium or how many kilometers it is from Indianapolis to Atlanta.”

  “I know, Cam. Your people thought you’d be paving the way for the Communists to take over if you made maps and distance markers easy for them to read. And where are your Commies now?”

  Buck had passed off most of Dirk Burton’s ideas until a few years later when Dirk had called him in the middle of the night. “Cameron,” he had said, unaware of the nickname bestowed by his friend’s colleagues, “I can’t talk long. You can pursue this or you can just watch it happen and wish it had been your story. But you remember that stuff I was saying about the one world currency?”

  “Yeah. I’m still dubious.”

  “Fine, but I’m telling you the word here is that our guy pushed the idea at the last meeting of these secret financiers and something’s brewing.”<
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  “What’s brewing?”

  “Well, there’s going to be a major United Nations Monetary Conference, and the topic is going to be streamlining currency.”

  “Big deal.”

  “It is a big deal, Cameron. Our guy got shot down. He, of course, was pushing for world currency to become pounds sterling.”

  “What a surprise that that won’t happen. Look at your economy.”

  “But listen, the big news, if you can believe any leak out of the secret meeting, is that they have it down to three currencies for the entire world, hoping to go to just one inside a decade.”

  “No way. Won’t happen.”

  “Cameron, if my information is correct, the initial stage is a done deal. The U.N. conference is just window dressing.”

  “And the decision has already been made by your secret puppeteers.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know, Dirk. You’re a buddy, but I think you would rather be doing what I’m doing.”

  “Who wouldn’t?”

  “Well, that’s true. I sure wouldn’t want to be doing what you’re doing.”

  “But I’m not wrong, Cameron. Test my information.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll predict what’s going to come out of the U.N. within two weeks, and if I’m right, you start treating me with a little deference, a little respect.”

  Buck realized that he and Dirk had been sparring the way everyone at Princeton had during weekend pizza and beer bashes in the dorms. “Dirk, listen. That sounds interesting, and I’m listening. But you do know, don’t you, all kidding aside, that I wouldn’t think any less of you even if you were way off base here?”

  “Well, thanks, Cam. Really. That means a lot to me. And for that little tidbit, I’m going to give you a bonus. I’m not only going to tell you that the U.N. resolution is going to be for dollars, Euros, and yen within five years, but I’m also going to tell you that the real power behind the power is an American.”

  “What do you mean, the power behind the power?”

  “The mightiest of the secret group of international money men.”

  “This guy runs the group, in other words?”

  “He’s the one who shot down sterling as one of the currencies and has dollars in mind for the one world commodity in the end.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Jonathan Stonagal.”

  Buck had hoped Dirk would name someone ludicrous so he could burst into laughter. But he had to admit, if only to himself, that if there was anything to this, Stonagal would be a logical choice. One of the richest men in the world and long known as an American power broker, Stonagal would have to be involved if serious global finance was being discussed. Though he was already in his eighties and appeared infirm in news photos, he not only owned the biggest banks and financial institutions in the United States, but he also owned or had huge interests in the same throughout the world.

  Though Dirk was a friend, Buck had felt the need to play him along a bit, to keep him eager to provide information. “Dirk, I’m going back to bed. I appreciate all this and find it very interesting. I’m going to see what comes out of this U.N. deal, and I’m also going to see if I can trace the movements of Jonathan Stonagal. If it happens the way you think, you’ll be my best informant. Meanwhile, see if you can find out for me how many are in this secret group and where they meet.”

  “That’s easy,” Dirk had said. “There are at least ten, though more than that sometimes come to the meetings, including some heads of state.”

  “U.S. presidents?”

  “Occasionally, believe it or not.”

  “That’s sort of one of the popular conspiracy theories here, Dirk.”

  “That doesn’t mean it isn’t true. And they usually meet in France. I don’t know why. Some kind of private chalet or something there gives them a sense of security.”

  “But nothing escapes your friend of a friend of a relative of a subordinate of a secretary, or whatever.”

  “Laugh all you want, Cam. Our guy in the group, Joshua Todd-Cothran, may just not be quite as buttoned-down as the rest.”

  “Todd-Cothran? Doesn’t he run the London Exchange?”

  “That’s the guy.”

  “Not buttoned-down? How could he have that position and not be? Plus, who ever heard of a Brit who was not buttoned-down?”

  “It happens.”

  “Good night, Dirk.”

  Of course, it had all proven correct. The U.N. made its resolution. Buck discovered that Jonathan Stonagal had lived in the Plaza Hotel in New York during the ten days of the confab. Mr. Todd-Cothran of London had been one of the more eloquent speakers, expressing such eagerness to see the matter through that he volunteered to carry the torch back to the prime minister regarding Great Britain moving to the mark from the pound.

  Many Third World countries fought the change, but within a few years the three currencies had swept the globe. Buck had told only Steve Plank of his tip on the U.N. meetings, but he didn’t say where he’d gotten the information, and neither he nor Plank felt it worth a speculative article. “Too risky,” Steve had said. Soon they both wished they had run with it in advance. “You’d have become even more of a legend, Buck.”

  Dirk and Buck had become closer than ever, and it wasn’t unusual for Buck to visit London on short notice. If Dirk had a serious lead, Buck packed and went. His trips had often turned into excursions into countries and climates that surprised him, thus he had packed the emergency gear. Now, it appeared, it was superfluous. He was stuck in Chicago after the most electrifying phenomenon in world history, trying to get to New York.

  Despite the incredible capabilities of his laptop, there was still no substitute for the pocket notebook. Buck scribbled a list of things to do before setting off again:

  Call Ken Ritz, charter pilot

  Call Dad and Jeff

  Call Hattie Durham with news of family

  Call Lucinda Washington about local hotel

  Call Dirk Burton

  The phone awakened Rayford Steele. He had not moved for hours. It was early evening and beginning to get dark. “Hello?” he said, unable to mask the sleepy huskiness in his voice.

  “Captain Steele?” It was the frantic voice of Hattie Durham.

  “Yes, Hattie. Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! My phone was dead for the longest time, then everything was busy. I thought I was getting a ring on your phone, but you never answered. I don’t know anything about my mother or my sisters. What about you?”

  Rayford sat up, dizzy and disoriented. “I got a message from Chloe,” he said.

  “I knew that,” she said. “You told me at O’Hare. Are your wife and son all right?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  Rayford was silent. What else was there to say?

  “Do you know anything for sure?” Hattie asked.

  “I’m afraid I do,” he said. “Their bedclothes are here.”

  “Oh, no! Rayford, I’m sorry! Is there anything I can do?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Do you want some company?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I’m scared.”

  “So am I, Hattie.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Keep trying to get Chloe. Hope she can come home or I can get to her.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Stanford. Palo Alto.”

  “My people are in California, too,” Hattie said. “They’ve got all kinds of trouble out there, even worse than here.”

  “I imagine it’s because of the time difference,” Rayford said. “More people on the roads, that sort of thing.”

  “I’m scared to death of what’s become of my family.”

  “Let me know what you find out, Hattie, OK?”

  “I will, but you were supposed to call me. ’Course my phone was dead, and then I couldn’t get through to you.”


  “I wish I could say I tried to call you, Hattie, but I didn’t. This is hard for me.”

  “Let me know if you need me, Rayford. You know, just someone to talk to or be with.”

  “I will. And you let me know what you find out about your family.”

  He almost wished he hadn’t added that. Losing his wife and child made him realize what a vapid relationship he had been pursuing with a twenty-seven-year-old woman. He hardly knew her, and he certainly didn’t much care what happened to her family any more than he cared when he heard about a remote tragedy on the news. He knew Hattie was not a bad person. In fact, she was nice and friendly. But that was not why he had been interested in her. It had merely been a physical attraction, something he had been smart enough or lucky enough or naive enough not to have acted upon. He felt guilty for having considered it, and now his own grief would obliterate all but the most common courtesy of simply caring for a coworker.

  “There’s my call waiting,” she said. “Can you hold?”

  “No, just go ahead and take it. I’ll call you later.”

  “I’ll call you back, Rayford.”

  “Well, OK.”

  Buck Williams followed an excited crowd to an old pay phone that was miraculously working. He wanted to see how many personal calls he could make. He reached Ken Ritz’s voice mail first.

  “This is Ritz’s Charter Service. Here’s the deal in light of the crisis: I’ve got Learjets at both Palwaukee and Waukegan, but I’ve lost my other flyer. I can get to either airport, but right now they’re not lettin’ anyone into any of the major strips. Can’t get into Milwaukee, O’Hare, Kennedy, Logan, National, Dulles, Dallas, Atlanta. I can get into some of the smaller, outlying airports, but it’s a seller’s market. Sorry to be so opportunistic, but I’m asking two dollars a mile, cash up front. If I can find someone who wants to come back from where you’re goin’, I might be able to give you a little discount. I’m checkin’ messages tonight and will take off first thing in the morning. Longest trip with guaranteed cash gets me. If your stop is on the way, I’ll try to squeeze you in. Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”